


than are dreamt of in your philosophy

by braigwen_s



Category: Discworld - Terry Pratchett
Genre: Gen, Grand Sneer (Discworld), Philisophical Discourses, Philosophy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-21
Updated: 2020-10-21
Packaged: 2021-03-08 17:23:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 860
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27140362
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/braigwen_s/pseuds/braigwen_s
Summary: Is the pen mightier than the sword?  Margolotta and Havelock disagree.
Relationships: (could also be seen as romantic or sexual if that is your poison of choice), Lady Margolotta & Havelock Vetinari
Comments: 6
Kudos: 19





	than are dreamt of in your philosophy

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Hamlet, taken from a line that suggests human knowledge does not cover all of reality.

The young man in front of Margolotta spoke with the surety that the sage wisdom he was quoting would be accepted as such, and not used as a major debating point. “The pen is mightier than the sword.”

The young man was incorrect. He was young, and a romantic, and valued his philosophy, so it was to be expected. Even ethics debates were a cold equation, a false battle. The greatest sporting pursuits of the great minds were games of war, of chess and thud. Margolotta scoffed at him, and shook her head decisively. “Despite your best efforts, you are naive. The sword, ven held to throats, compels the pen to write vhatever the sword-veilder vants.”

He looked at her for some minutes, but couldn’t muster an answer. She confessed it to herself: she was disappointed.

The next evening, however, Havelock was dressed formally. His hair ran in a neat plait that hung over his shoulder, at his chest, and was tied with a thick ribbon. He wore a heavy, velvet black gown, not the simple tunic-and-robe-and-trousers he had been wearing the night before. She knew instinctively that he had decided tonight would be a Significant Event in his coming-of-age journey, but she wasn’t sure what that would be. He certainly did not appear to be sneering, which was what a coming-of-age journey seemed to be called by young, wealthy humans.

Almost immediately after she entered, he asked his question, as if he was not able to wait any longer. “Is the writing implement truly less mighty than the bladed weapon, my lady?”

Oh, this again. The poor child, she had rocked his whole worldview. He was a soulful academic, and she had noted he took infinitely more pride in that than any of his martial prowess. “Yes. It is a sad fact, but fact it is.”

Havelock laid down two objects on the table in front of him, perfectly parallel, both pointed towards Margolotta. “I would urge you to think about this carefully.”

She looked at them. On the left was a gleaming stiletto knife. The blade had been beautifully acid-etched in swirling, poisonous designs, and the hilt was some black material, possibly some type of stone, polished to a dull, non-light-reflecting sheen. On the right was a pencil. It had been sharpened by knife, maybe the same stiletto, into a similar slowly-tapered point. The wood was unstained, but sanded grain, and it appeared to be ash wood. It was smaller than most she had seen in her long, long unlife, and it was the first there was charcoal buried in its centre, but its intended purpose was clear, and she realised with a slight shock there was no reason it would not work for its purpose. It was a stake.

In this instance, in a limited perspective of this very limited scenario, Havelock had created a pencil that was more deadly than a knife.

“I zink I see your point,” she said. The way he moved his mouth was reminiscent of smile, but clearly and painfully a teenager who rehearsed facial expressions in mirrors. She almost misliked to tear his worldview down again, despite the fact he kept coming for more. In one swift movement, too swift for his human reflexes to catch up with, she picked up them both and turned them around, placing them back on her side of the table. Now they were both pointing at him. “But, for you, the bladed weapon vould cause more harm.”

“To my body, yes,” he said. “But what about to my mind?”

“Ze mind is dependant on ze body. If your body ceases to work, zo does your mind.”

“And yet the mind the controls the body.”

“No, ze body controls ze mind.” This debate again. He had goaded her back to this. Confound this boy, did he not realise how much effort it took not to tear his throat out? How much she wanted to thrall him, to drain his fragile human body of all its blood, to suck him until his body was a husk of dust? The only reason that she did not do so was because he had interesting questions, and provoked interesting conversations. The only thing that kept Havelock alive was that humans were commonality, but minds that thought as well and deeply as his were rare –

Oh. Oh, damnation. He had done it, hadn’t he? He had proved his point; he had won the great debate.

He met her eyes calmly. “Yes,” he said, “I think that you have realised it. I tempt and infuriate you, but your mind ultimately commands your body. You have my stiletto and my stake, so I can not reach for them in self-defence, and you also have your reflexes and your teeth. And yet I am confident I will survive.”

“You could be mistaken,” she said. She could feel something pounding through her ears, but she wasn’t sure if it was blood craving or if that was what it felt like to have your worldview shattered.

“I could be, my lady,” Havelock Vetinari agreed amiably. But he wasn’t, and they both knew. Well, this was … interesting.


End file.
